


Dilate

by mthrfkrgdhrwego (universalchampbalor)



Category: Professional Wrestling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Sugar Daddy, Anal Sex, Angst, Bottom Jon, Dirty Talk, First Time, GUESS WHO WROTE VIRGIN JON, Hospitals, Its hinted at - Freeform, Kinda, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Minor Violence, Rimming, THIS IS ROMOX, Theft, Top Roman, alright so, business man roman, can you believe i wrote top roman lmao, i finished it in honor of mox coming back :3, i think i've been writing this for over a year, i think this is a firs, its only light angst but it's still there, mox tries to steal roman's tires it's nbd, street fighter mox, y e a h
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-02
Updated: 2019-05-02
Packaged: 2020-02-15 19:27:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18675973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/universalchampbalor/pseuds/mthrfkrgdhrwego
Summary: It has not been a good day. It started out with his car almost breaking down, three meetings that went into overtime, dealing with clients he fucking hates, and missing lunch to deal with fucking Wyatt and co. It’s raining, his phone is dead, and Roman wants nothing more than to go home, get out of his fucking suit, and relax.Instead, he gets to his car, and finds some kid jacking his tires.





	Dilate

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cookiethewriter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cookiethewriter/gifts).



> This sure is a piece of fanfic lmao  
> Gifted to Cookie for a) getting me into Romox in the first place and b) for giving me encouragement for this!!

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

It has not been a good day. It started out with his car almost breaking down, three meetings that went into overtime, dealing with clients he fucking  _ hates _ , and missing lunch to deal with  _ fucking Wyatt and co. _ It’s raining, his phone is dead, and Roman wants nothing more than to go home, get out of his fucking suit, and relax.

Instead, he gets to his car, and finds some kid jacking his tires.

His wheel covers are stacked next to the kid’s knees, and he’s working quickly to remove the lug nuts. The car is jacked up on top of a cinder block, and Roman’s gotta hand it to him; the kid works fast. He’s spinning the lug wrench with a practiced simplicity, the muscles of his biceps straining under his stained sleeves.

Roman watches him for a moment, standing about ten feet away. He feels so fucking awkward, watching someone steal his tires as rain spills over his umbrella. It takes a ridiculously long time for him to respond to the  _ kid literally stealing his tires.  _

He stalks forwards, his polished oxfords clicking against the parking structure floor. He regrets parking on the top level, not only because of the rain. No one else parks up there, so no one’s noticed the kid jacking his tires. The kid looks up when Roman comes to a stop next to him. He looks startlingly young, bright blue eyes and full strawberry blonde curls plastered to his forehead and cheeks.  His lips, both bitten an angry red, are pulled into something akin to a snarl, revealing crooked teeth clacking against his lip ring. There’s a bruise blossoming on the curve of his jaw, an aggressive scratch stark against his cheekbone. His nose is crooked and there’s a black eye fading around his left eye socket. There are stitches, crude and obviously done by a shaking hand, at his hairline. He’s wearing a torn black sweatshirt and wrecked jeans, as well as scuffed boots that are starting to wear thin. He’s shivering something fierce.

“What do you want, asshole?” The kid bites. His voice is high, airy, sounds like gravel spilling off his tongue. Roman wonders absently how much he smokes, because there’s no question of  _ if _ he smokes. The anger in his tone is backed by the scrapes and bruises along his face, the scars on his knuckles as he bares his teeth.

“Nothing much.” Roman says, holding his umbrella over the kid. The kid flinches as the rain stops over him and Roman steps closer. “Just wondering why you’re jacking my tires.” He adds nonchalantly. He watches, almost fascinated, as the kid’s face turns from aggressive to surprised to that of a caged animal.

He jumps to his feet, left hand raised into a fist as the other curls around the lug wrench. He swings, and Roman has to drop into a crouch to avoid getting his jaw broken. The kid doesn’t seem phased though, and Roman scrambles backward before he can be attacked again.

“Whoa, calm down. You’re doing this for money, right?” Roman asks, raising his hands in a way he hopes is placating. The kid narrows his eyes and pushes back his sopping hair before nodding. Roman reaches for his wallet as he gets back to his feet. “Okay. How about this? You give me my tires back, and I’ll give you a couple hundred.” He says, fingers already reaching for a few bills.

The kid  _ snarls _ , something dark and feral in the back of his throat. “I don’t need your fucking pity.” He bites out, throwing a quick punch that connects with Roman’s jaw. Roman stumbles, grabs his car to keep from falling, and the kid runs past him.

He struggles to put on his own tires before he calls a tow truck.   
++   
The next time Roman sees the kid, it’s in the gym near his apartment complex. Roman follows a strict regimen and recently, he’s been slacking because of all the goddamn meetings he’s been dealing with. He’s halfway through his workout when he sees him.

The kid looks out of place in the gym. He’s scrawny, too thin under his basketball shorts. He’s shirtless, revealing deep scars along his shoulders and ribs, the narrow dip of his waist, the broad line of his shoulders. He’s pale, has a few freckles along his pecs. Every time he moves, it seems to draw attention to another scar, another bruise, another cut. 

The kid’s on the other side of the weight room, staring down at the weight bar on the floor in front of him. Roman counts a total of 250 pounds distributed across the bar. The kid’s rocking back and forth on his heels, fingers tapping aggressively against the knob of his collarbone. He has his lower lip tucked between his snaggled front teeth, lower jaw running from side to side.

Roman walks over slowly. He gets within a few feet of the kid before he stops, crosses his arms. The kid looks up and his eyes go hard. “You know, to get the benefits, you need to actually lift the weights.” Roman says, raising an eyebrow. The kid stays silent, stares at the floor, waits for Roman to leave. Roman stays put.

“Look, man, I’m sorry I tried to jack your tires, but you don’t gotta creep on me when I’m tryin’ to workout.” The kid says, running a hand through his hair. It looks longer than the last time Roman saw it, hanging down to the curve of his jaw. It’s sweat-soaked, just like the rest of him, and it falls back into his eyes as soon as his hand moves. He dries it against his shorts. His voice cracks as he speaks, as he wavers on his feet.

Roman laughs. “I’m not creeping on you, kid. You obviously have no clue what you’re doing.” He says, gesturing to the barbell. The kid’s lip tugs up in a sneer, releasing his lower lip. It’s wet with saliva and  _ red _ , and Roman’s breath catches.

“I know what the hell I’m doin’, asshole.” He growls. His voice is so much rougher than Roman remembered, like his throat’s been burned, like he’s smoked a pack without any break (like he’s been on his knees all day, his brain supplies unhelpfully). The kid bends at the waist, grips the weight bar and does a quick set of deadlifts. His form isn’t great and his arms are locked all wrong. 

As he watches, Roman notices the quake of his arms, his thighs, the waiver of his footing. The kid drops the weight bar and turns to look at Roman, breathing heavily. He has an eyebrow raised, defiant, waiting for Roman to question him. 

“I stand corrected.” Roman laughs. He offers a hand and introduces himself. “I’m Roman. You got a name, kid?” He asks. The kid doesn’t shake his hand, instead stares him down.

“I’m not a kid, and my name ain’t any of your business.” He growls. He’s speaking like Roman had personally insulted him and his entire bloodline. There’s fire in his bright blue eyes, masking something else Roman can’t identify.

“I think I deserve to know the name of the guy who tried to jack my tires.” Roman says, leaning against the wall. The kid’s lip curls harshly, and he bares his teeth. Roman doesn’t back down, simply stares at him with a quirked eyebrow.

Finally, the kid rolls his eyes and says, “Mox. You can call me Mox.” He doesn’t offer his hand, and Roman doesn’t reoffer his either. The kid,  _ Mox _ , bends to pick up the weight bar, and Roman turns to leave.

He hears a crash, and he turns to find Mox crumpled on the floor.   
++   
Roman takes Mox to the ER because it’s all he can think to do.

Mox stirs a few times on the short drive, but he mostly just opens his eyes groggily and then fades out again. Roman has to carry him in, the kid like dead weight against his side.

It takes an hour for Mox to fully wake up once they’re in a hospital room. Roman asks to stay with him out of pure anxiety, and the nurse lets him with pity in his eyes.

The doctor does a few tests, Mox fighting against it the entire time. He’s being a general pain in the ass, whining and squirming and trying to avoid the doctor’s hands. After a few hours of waiting, the doctor comes back and tells Mox that he’s malnourished. Mox rolls his eyes and grumbles something that sounds like, “ _ That’s shocking _ .” They replace his stitches while they’re there, since the ones he has in are not doing their job.

Roman foots the bill because Mox panics as soon as they ask for his insurance. He refuses to take the supplements they tell him to take, saying something along the lines of “ _ He’s finally clean and I’m not gonna do that to him.” _ The doctor tells him to eat more or else he’s gonna end up there again.

Roman drives Mox home, Mox fidgeting in the passenger seat the whole drive. He lives in the bad part of town, in a small apartment that looks like it’s falling apart. Roman insists on helping Mox up to his apartment since Mox can barely stand on his own. The smaller man fights him the whole time, but they manage to get to the third floor.

Mox knocks and the door is answered by a shorter man with spiked black hair and tired blue eyes. There’s a cigarette hanging from his mouth, and the smoke is stinging Roman’s eyes. He doesn’t look at Roman, instead just grabs Mox and ushers him inside. 

A few moments later he reappears, and Roman can hear Mox complaining in the background. He’s yelling, something that sounds like, “I’m not a fucking baby, Callihan!” that the shorter man ignores. Instead, he looks at his boots and asks, “What’d he do this time?”

“Passed out at the gym. Took him to the ER and they said he was malnourished. I’m Roman.” He offers his hand, but the kid-Callihan, maybe- doesn’t take it. Roman lets it drop to his side.

“Thanks for bringing him back.” With that, Callihan slams the door.   
++   
Roman doesn’t want to be here.

Seth came barrelling into his office earlier that week, spouting something about an indie match he wanted to take Roman to. He said something about the guy he knows in the fight is “just your type” and he wasn’t taking no for an answer. That leads to this, to Roman sitting in an uncomfortable folding chair in a t-shirt and jeans with Seth practically vibrating next to him.

Seth has always been more into wrestling than Roman was. Roman’s into it, sure, but it’s been somewhat of a distant interest. Ever since he got injured with football and had to stop playing, sports had become sort of a sore subject, something he distanced himself from. Still, he can never say no to Seth, and Seth won’t listen to him most of the time anyway, so here he is, in a warehouse full of loud fans surrounding a wrestling ring.

He sits disinterestedly through a few fights before Seth slaps his arm excitedly. “This is the match my friend’s in!” He half-yells to be heard over the roaring of the crowd. Someone’s entrance music has started, but Roman can’t hear what it is over the crowd hollering, “THUMBTACK JACK” over and over as loud as they can; hell, he can barely hear the ring announcer saying that the kid’s name is, in fact, “Thumbtack Jack.”

The guy that comes out isn’t too tall and is terribly thin. He’s wearing all white and a white, expressionless mask. He’s limping, and there are barely healing cuts along his arms and a bandage around his left elbow. When he gets to the ring, he strips off his shirt and the mask, revealing pale skin and dark eyes, as well as dark hair, an eyebrow piercing, and a short goatee. He has X's marked on his wrist tape, which is already stained with what looks like blood.

The ring announcer begins announcing Thumbtack Jack’s opponent, and the crowd starts yelling bloody murder, booing and jeering. Roman barely registers the name “Jon Moxley” over the crowd’s shouting before his heart stops.

The man that comes out is Mox. His hair is wet and stuffed under an old trucker hat. He’s wearing a black t-shirt over his trunks ( _ which barely cover his ass, what the fuck) _ and kneepads. He’s got worn boots on that thud against the warehouse floor. He makes a rude gesture at the crowd and starts yelling when he gets to the ring. He’s loud enough that Roman can hear him, but not loud enough to be understood above the din. 

The fight is  _ brutal _ . At some point, Mox brings out a fork, and from then on, all hell breaks loose. By the time Mox’s hand gets raised, they’re both covered in blood and he’s the only one standing,  _ barely _ . There’s blood running from the cut on his forehead, down his chest, staining his hands, clinging to his thighs. He’s breathing heavily and he looks  _ at home _ , for some reason. 

Afterwards, Seth drags him to a nearby bar.  _ To celebrate _ , Seth says, but Roman knows it’s to ease the pain of getting dumped recently. Roman isn’t one to judge, knows he’s made the same decisions time and time again. 

He’s shell shocked, staring into his whiskey. Seth abandoned him an hour ago, leaving him alone so he can dance with some skinny Irish twink. Roman doesn’t mind. He needs the time, to process everything he saw, everything he witnessed, in that short, 15-minute match.

He doesn’t get too much time to himself, because he spends most of the hour trying to get people to leave him alone. By the time he finally gets some reprieve from a pretty ginger, someone crashes into the seat next to him.

He turns, a growl on his lips until he sees who it is. The growl dies when he sees Mox sitting next to him, dried blood still staining his lip. He’s got two shots of tequila with him, his hands shaking from either alcohol or blood loss. Maybe both. He doesn’t say anything, just downs the shots wordlessly and hisses at the burn. He rests his head against the sticky bar counter, ignoring how the press of it must sting against his carved forehead.

“You okay there?” Roman asks after a moment of awkward silence. Mox doesn’t answer right away, doesn’t even show any signs that he heard Roman. The shorter man is about to check to see if he’s conscious when Mox raises his head.

“Just fuckin’ peachy. TJ won’t leave me alone. Great kid, but he’s fuckin’ annoyin’.” Mox grouses. He presses his elbow into the table, palm up, and rests his cheek in his hand. He’s looking at Roman with lidded eyes, the blue color muted something fierce.

“So this is what you do for a living, huh?” Roman asks, gesturing to the deep wound on Mox’s forehead. Mox flinches when Roman raises his hands.

Mox bares his teeth in something that’s supposed to resemble a smile. “Yup. Been doin’ deathmatches for almost a decade.” He seems proud, seems happy, despite the blood staining his teeth. Maybe he’s happy  _ because  _ of it.

“Can I ask why, or are you gonna bite my head off?” Roman asks. He downs the two fingers of whiskey in his glass, scrunching his nose for a second as it stings his throat.

“I do it ‘cause I’m good at it.” Mox says. He looks into his empty shot glass, like he wants another, but he sighs and slides it away. Roman signals the bartender to get him another. “I mean, it’s not like I can do anythin’ else. I don’t exactly have any redeeming skills. It’s either this or suckin’ dick for a livin’.” Mox shrugs, downs the shot the bartender slides in front of him. He’s starting to pick at the cut in his forehead, peeling away some loose skin. 

Roman’s hands twitch,  _ ache,  _ really, to reach out and stop him.

“You fallen on hard times?” Roman asks. He doesn’t know why he’s so curious about this kid, this asshole who tried to jack his tires not even a month earlier. Part of him knows, is screaming it deep in his stomach. Roman silences that part of him with another finger of whiskey.

Mox snorts. His hand has moved away from his wound, instead twisting a stray curl at the base of his skull. He rolls his jaw before he answers. “I doubt a guy like you would understand this, but I ain’t ever known good times.” His voice is small, choked in the base of his throat. He lets his head drop, coming to rest on his bicep. He looks tired, ragged, just as thin as he was when they first met.

Mox spends the rest of the night drinking with him. Roman pays Mox’s tab, waits until the strawberry blonde isn’t looking before he slides the bartender a few bills. By the time Roman’s ready to leave, Seth’s already gone, having sent a text a few hours before about going home with the Irish twink,  _ Finn _ . 

Mox is fucking wrecked. His forehead is bleeding again, a steady little trickle of blood into his eyebrow. He’s half passed out, slurring his words as he mumbles into Roman’s neck. At some point during the night, he had gotten handsy, attaching himself to Roman’s side as he rambled. Roman gave up on pushing him away after the third time he came back.

Roman needles Mox about his apartment keys or if his roommate’s home before giving up when Mox only answers with a, “ _ Sami’s too fuckin’ good to me, man. He keeps me alive when I don’t wanna be.” _ Roman isn’t about to grope through Mox’s pockets to check for his keys or a phone so he can use to text his roommate,  _ Sami _ .

Instead, he heaves Mox onto his shoulder, ignoring the little perturbed groan the thinner man emits. Roman manages to flag a cab and manhandles Mox into the backseat before thumping into the seat next to him. He tells the cabbie his address absently as he buckles Mox’s seatbelt. Mox has his head tossed back, revealing the long line of his neck.

Roman’s teeth ache.

He ignores it, instead staring out the window as they drive. He drums his fingers against his knee, an anxious little habit he’s never been able to kick. He’s zoned out, watching the rain hammer down on the windows, dragging the neon lights from club signs as they whiz past. 

He’s jarred out of his thoughts when a clumsy hand lands on his thigh.

Mox is staring at him with heavy eyes, the hunger there clouding the color. His pupils are blown wide to the point that Roman can barely see the blue of his irises. There’s a hard red flush settled across his cheeks, and Roman can’t tell what’s causing it but it sure as hell isn’t the shots. His breath is rushing out in harsh pants, blowing across his wet lips. His grip is hard on Roman’s thigh, nails digging into his muscle even through his jeans.

“You’re fuckin’ gorgeous.” Mox breathes, noses against Roman’s jaw. Roman takes a deep breath, ignores the ghost of Mox’s lips against his stubble. “God, look atcha.” Mox’s voice isn’t reverent but it’s damn close, words pressed to the skin over his pulse jackhammering in his veins.

Mox scrapes his teeth down Roman’s neck, starts just behind his ear and trails down to his collar. Roman sighs, low and frustrated in his throat. His eyes flutter shut as Mox does it again, teeth sharp in just the right way. The amount of control and willpower it takes to push Mox away is almost more than he possesses, but he manages anyway.

“You’re fucking drunk, dude.” Roman says, feels like he has to explain himself when he sees the hurt look in Mox’s eyes. The blonde smiles, eyes low, smile feral, the edge of his teeth glinting in the moonlight. He looks smug, self-satisfied, like he’s two seconds away from passing out.

“Ro, I’m always fuckin’ drunk.” He says, presses a  _ wet _ kiss to the hinge of Roman’s jaw. His breath catches at that, getting tangled in his throat. Mox’s hand hasn’t moved, still settled possessively halfway up his thigh. His fingertips are pressed roughly into Roman’s inseam. Roman has to fight back a shiver.

Somehow, by some fucking miracle, they make it to Roman’s condo with little groping. It’s also a miracle that Roman keeps his hands to himself. His fingers are itching and Mox’s shirt is riding up to reveal a stretch of pale skin and he wants nothing more than to  _ touch. _

He doesn’t, though, instead pays the cabbie and hauls Mox up to his condo. Mox spends the time presses open-mouthed kisses and sharp nips to Roman’s jaw, his hands fighting their way under the larger man’s shirt. Roman ignores it.

Instead, he drags the kid into his condo and sets him on the couch. Mox tries to stand when he moves away, but a stern look from Roman stills him. Roman comes back with a glass of water and a bandage he hopes will be big enough for the wound on Mox’s forehead.

Mox lets him patch him up, eyes starting to droop low. By the time Roman finishes, Mox is half asleep, mumbling something Roman can’t understand. Roman grabs a blanket and a pillow, gets Mox situated on the couch, leaves the water and some painkillers on the nightstand, and then goes to bed.   
++   
When Roman wakes up, his head’s pounding something fierce, and there’s a splinter of some emotion lodged next to his heart. He can’t identify it. He gets dressed, can’t manage anything other than a t-shirt and some sweats, before he drags himself out of his room to make dinner.

His heart stops when he reaches the kitchen.

Mox is sitting on top of the island, legs swinging as he chews on something. There are empty food containers strewn around him, and a cup of coffee clutched in his hand. Somewhere during the night, he lost his shirt, so he’s sitting there in tattered jeans that hang loose on his hips. 

He grins when he sees Roman.

“Mornin’, big guy.” He greets, sounds a little too chipper for this early in the morning. Part of Roman, the part that hasn’t been helpful these past few weeks, supplied that Mox looks gorgeous, the early morning sunlight streaming through the windows catching on his skin, his hair, his eyes, his smile. He looks radiant, glowing, like he hasn’t been in a fucking deathmatch.

Roman nods in greeting, moves past Mox to grab a cup of coffee of his own. His heart is doing something weird, but it’s too early to try and figure out what. 

He already knows what.

“How’re you feeling?” He asks, grabs a knife from the block next to him. He pulls some strawberries out of the fridge and gets to work on slicing them, dropping the tops in the sink and the rest of the fruit into a large bowl. He doesn’t realize Mox had moved until he sees a pale, scarred hand reaching over to grab a strawberry.

“Better. I’m always out of it after a fight. The food helped.” Mox says through a full mouth, one shoulder raising in a noncommittal shrug. Roman snorts out a laugh and he slides the bowl over to Mox. The blonde takes it, hops back up to sit on the counter.

“We gonna talk about last night?” Roman asks, looking down at his coffee instead of looking at Mox. Over his mug, he sees the smaller man squirm from his seat on the counter. 

“What’s there to talk about?” Mox asks, setting the bowl down next to him. He doesn’t move from where he’s sitting, but he does reach out a foot and hook it behind Roman’s knee. He carefully drags the older man closer to him. “You’re hot, and I want you in me.” He says it casually, as if he didn’t stop Roman’s heart with five words. He’s succeeded in pulling Roman close to him, feet hooked behind his knees as he presses Roman into the counter between his legs.

Roman groans, low in his throat, and sets his hands on Mox’s waist. The younger man shivers, rolls his hips forwards, brushes against Roman. He emits a sound somewhere between a moan and a whimper as he buries his face in Roman’s neck. He nips his teeth there, soothes it with his tongue, and dumps his weight off the counter.

Roman catches him, locking his hands under Mox’s ass to steady him. The taller man has his arms tossed around Roman’s shoulders and his feet hooked behind his back, legs twisted  _ tightightight _ . He nuzzles against Roman’s stubble, brushing his lips against Roman’s pulse-point.

Roman dumps Mox’s weight into the armchair.

Mox looks almost offended, for a moment. That offense turns into confusion and what Roman finally identifies as self-consciousness. He curls in on himself, knees drawn to his chest, forehead pressed against his knees. He’s not a small person by any stretch of the imagination, but he’s never looked so small.

“I’m not gonna do anything until I know you’re sober, you really want this, and we have a conversation like adults.” Roman says, an eyebrow raised. Mox looks up at him through a curtain of strawberry blonde curls and mile-long lashes, and Roman is struck by just how  _ young _ Mox looks.

The younger man doesn’t say anything. Just looks at Roman and pouts. He has his teeth sunk into his lower lip, picking at the loose, dry skin there. His fingers are pressing  _ hard _ into the bruises across his ribs, digging into the skin hard enough to dent it. 

Roman smooths his hand over Mox’s forehead, being careful to avoid his stitches. “I’m gonna go take a shower, ok? You’re welcome to use it after me. Just think on this, alright?” He says, voice soft. He feels like if he speaks any louder, the younger man is going to break.

Moxley nods, just barely.   
++   
After their showers, Roman sits on the balcony with a cup of coffee and a bowl of fruit. His shoulders ache something fierce, and his pounding headache still hasn’t let up. Going to the gym today is a lost cause, he realizes. His hair is still wet, hanging down past his shoulders as it dries. It’s a nice day out, warm but not too bright, a light breeze rustling the leaves on the trees.

Mox comes out after about an hour and curls up on the chair next to Roman’s. He’s wearing a pair of Roman’s work out shorts and a t-shirt that’s much too large on him. He’s still digging his fingers into his various bruises, but at least there’s a layer of fabric in the way now. His hair is wet, hanging down into his eyes.

Now that he’s showered and the dried blood has been washed off, Roman can see the litany of scratches and cuts on his skin. There are several deep, small cuts on his forehead from a fork, and Roman winces as he sees it. Mox doesn’t seem bothered, though, and the wounds look clean. The gash on his arm left from god knows what could probably use some stitches, but he doubts Mox will let him take him to the hospital.

“I should probably call Sami. You gotta phone I can use?” Mox asks, knocking his knuckles against the knob of his collar bone. He’s bouncing a little in his seat, full of nervous energy that he can’t seem to get a use for.

Roman nods and grabs his cell phone. He opens the phone app and hands it over, watches as Mox fiddles with it. The younger man gets up and paces across the balcony as he waits for his friend to pick up. He lights up when he does.

“Hey, Sami. I’m fine. Nah, I’m with Roman. Hot dude that took me to the hospital. Yeah. I’ll be home at some point, okay? Don’t wait up for me. Make sure you eat. I got fed here, so you can take my meal for the day. Love you too, asshole. See ya later.” Mox hangs up and hands the phone back to Roman before sitting down on the ground.

“Where are we?” He asks, gnawing on his thumbnail. He’s avoiding eye contact like the plague, eyes darting to everything other than Roman’s own eyes. His knee is vibrating with nervous energy, and Roman’s worried he’s gonna give himself a black eye.

“We’re downtown. I took you here last night after we hung out at the bar because you were too drunk to tell me if you had a key or if your roommate was home. You were pretty out of it after your match, so I let you crash.” He explains. Mox looks almost vulnerable, and it’s a word he doesn’t like using to describe him.

“Do I need to take you home?” He asks. Mox doesn’t look at him, just shakes his head and mumbles out a  _ not now. _ He’s rolling his shoulder like it’s bothering him, and Roman finds himself standing before he realizes it. “Let me look at your shoulder.”

Mox finally looks at him, eyebrows drawn in confusion. “Why?” He asks as he shakes his hand. His pinkie and thumb are outstretched, and he’s twisting his hand just a little bit, just enough to blur his fingers together.

“You’re rolling it like it hurts. Let me take a look at it.” Roman offers, holding out a hand. Mox looks at it like he’s never seen one before. It’s a long moment, and very awkward, and then he slaps it away.

“Why the fuck are you bein’ so nice to me? I tried to steal your fuckin’ tires.” He bites, hands clenching into fists. His face is turning red. “Do you want somethin’ from me? Cuz I ain’t got anythin’ to give.” His voice sounds strained, cracking as he speaks.

Roman’s eyebrows knit together. “What?” It’s all he can muster. This seems to have come out of nowhere. Hell, just earlier that day, Mox was talking about how hot he found Roman and was trying to come onto him. 

“People like you aren’t just  _ nice _ to people like me unless you want something or unless we’re a charity case.” Mox is standing now, and he looks ready to fight. Roman feels almost worried.

“Listen, man. I don’t want anything from you, and I don’t pity you. I can drive you home if you want, but I’ll leave you alone, alright?” Roman’s heart lurched into his throat as Mox looked up at him with hurt in his eyes.

Mox rolls to his feet and brushes past Roman. The weight of the younger man slams into him, and he recoils away from the touch. Mox takes a few large steps, and then he’s gone, the door slamming behind him.

Roman sits there, stunned.   
++   
Roman doesn’t hear from Mox for 3 weeks.

In that time frame, he goes back to the indie show he’d seen Mox at, to no avail. A twink with a bad tattoo, crooked teeth, and stringy blonde hair tells him that Mox hasn’t been back since then. He calls Mox’s roommate, but the kid seems wigged out, like he isn’t fully there, and he won’t give a solid answer. He goes to the gym where he’d seen Mox, bugs Seth about him, and comes up with jack shit.

He finally hears from Mox three weeks later when he’s at a fancy dinner with his cousins. 

Jimmy gives him a worried look when he all but chokes on his food when he sees the number he saved as Callihan’s flashing on his screen. Jey rolls his eyes and tells him to leave and answer it, and Naomi gives him a worried look as he leaves the restaurant. He’s hoping beyond hope that it’s Mox but who fucking knows.

“Hello?” The voice that comes through his speaker is tinny and cracked but still so familiar to Roman. He breathes out a sigh of relief when he hears it, lets his lungs fill again as he swallows down panic. “You there?”

“Yeah, I’m here. Where’ve you been, Mox?” He asks, leaning against the side of the building. He’s sure it’s gonna cover his suit jacket in brick dust but he doesn’t care. His legs feel weak and he needs the support.

“Not important. Can you….can you come pick me up? Sami ain’t got the phone today and I’m in a rough spot.” He laughs, a little bitterly, a little too dry, and when he coughs, it sounds wet. “I’m on the corner of Armistead, by the warehouse. Please.” And then he hangs up.

Roman barely remembers to run in and tell his cousins he has to skip dinner. Naomi looks worried, and she presses a comforting kiss to his chest when she hugs him. Jey says something but Roman’s harried brain doesn’t catch it. He only knows he speaks by the low rumble of his voice and the flash of his grill in the dim light.

Roman drives entirely too fast trying to get to Armistead and manages to avoid getting pulled over. He’s shaking, and his brain is providing every horrible circumstance that could be happening. Part of him wonders if he’s gonna find Mox alive.

He drives up and down Armistead near the warehouse for what feels like forever. He calls Mox again and doesn’t get a response, goes straight to voicemail, and he panics.

After a fucking eternity, he finds Mox. He finds Mox slumped over in the corner of the alley between the warehouse and the shitty pizza place next door. He looks terrible. His skin is pale and clammy and his hair is sticking to his forehead. His eyes are lidded, heavy, hazed over. His shirt was sticking to his torso with blood and sweat.

The blood. There’s so much fucking blood. It stains his shirt and gushes between his fingers. He has his hand pressed to the side of his gut, fingers twitching weakly. His lips are chapped and his teeth are stained with blood. He’s missing a lateral incisor and his front tooth looks loose.

Roman drops to his knees and tears off his suit jacket. “Fuck, Mox, what happened? He asks, voice breathless in the worst way. He carefully presses his balled up suit jacket to the wound in Mox’s torso. He tries to ignore the shaking in his hands.

Mox gives him a bloody smile that splits his lip. He coughs wetly, and blood splashes into his free hand as he blocks his mouth. “Hey Ro. Got knifed after a match. Think it was Kingston but it might've been Gage.” He coughs again. “You came.”

“Course I came, Mox. You said you were in trouble.” Roman says, looking at Mox with wet eyes. The younger man looks weak, so fucking weak, and Roman’s heart splinters in his chest. 

“Jon. Call me Jon.” He wheezes, blood trickling down his chin. He reaches out with a shaky hand and cups Roman’s cheek. Roman can feel the slick warmth of Jon’s blood, and he’s sure that there’s gonna be dried blood in his beard for days. He reaches up, grasps Jon’s hand, and watches as the younger man slumps over.   
++   
He spends an indiscernible amount of time in the emergency room.

They don’t let him stay with Jon, so he has to stay in the waiting room. He calls Seth, tells him what happens, breaks down when he sees the blood on his hands. His shirt is ruined, the crisp white stained with deep, deep crimson. He’s so exhausted he can’t even cry after what he thinks is the fourth hour.

Jon has to go through surgery. He has to get a blood transfusion. Roman isn't allowed to see him until he's out of the ICU. At some point, Seth comes to drag him home. Roman digs his heels in, insists on waiting until he knows Mox is gonna be okay. He calls Jon’s roommate and updates him on what happened with a shaky voice. 

Sami doesn't seem concerned.

He doesn't remember going home, doesn't remember showering, doesn't remember changing or eating. All he knows is Jon’s out of the ICU in three days, and Roman can finally fucking see him.

He looks terrible. There are dark bags hanging heavy under his eyes, and the crystal blue looks clouded. His head is rolled back, and Roman can see bruises shaped suspiciously like fingerprints wrapped around the base of Jon’s throat. He’s wearing a hospital gown that looks too big on him, slipping down to reveal the hollow of his collarbone. Bruises mottle his skin, down his arms, across his neck, along his cheek, across his thigh, which is revealed by the blankets pulled low on his legs.

He gives Roman a loose, crooked smile when he comes into the room. Sami’s sitting in the chair in the corner, picking at his cuticles to the point where he’s bleeding. He’s rocking back and forth, and he seems even more keyed up than usual. Roman briefly wonders how many pills he’s taken and if he’s eaten in the past two days.

Roman sits on the edge of the bed, a hand coming to rest on Jon’s shin. Jon smiles at him, his lips still bloody, the gums around his missing tooth an angry red. “Hey, Ro. Thanks for saving me, I guess.” He mumbles, tilting his head back against the pillow. His words are slightly slurred, probably because of the morphine pumping through his system. Roman wonders if he fought them on that.

“No problem. How’re you feeling?” He asks, reaching up to grab Jon’s hand. Jon looks at the connection for a moment, eyes wide and watery. Roman skirts around the cuts on Mox’s knuckles, fanning his thumb across scarred skin. 

“I feel like I’ve been stabbed. Got a cool new scar though.” He mumbles, pulling up the edge of the hospital gown to show the bandages wrapped around his side. They look fresh, but they’re still a little bloody. Roman’s eyes fight to trail up the line of Mox’s thigh.

“You gonna be okay? Doctors wouldn’t tell me anything.” Roman says, voice getting caught in his throat. He feels like he’s drowning on dry land, like he’s dying and no one can save him. The grip Mox has on his hand feels like a lifeline.

Mox shrugs. “Lost a lotta blood. Knife clipped my intestines, so there was a lot of internal bleedin’. They say I should be good in a few weeks if I don’t aggravate it.” He says around his thumbnail. He’s chewing aggressively, and Roman carefully pulls his hands away.

After a few moments of silence, Mox speaks again, his voice watery. “They told me I can’t do any fights in the meantime. I don’t know how we’re gonna get enough money to eat. The lights are gonna get cut off soon anyway.” His lip quivers as he speaks, and he forcefully rubs the tears from his eyes.

Roman kisses him.

Mox freezes, going rigid under Roman. He takes a shuddering breath through his nose, one that sounds pained, strained. His hand comes up, tangles in Roman’s hair, and he kisses back with enough force to almost knock Roman off balance.

Mox’s lips taste like blood and beer and something darker, headier, something that Roman can tell is  _ him _ . His lips are chapped and pliant and he lets Roman take control of the kiss, lets Roman set the pace, lets Roman carefully lick into his mouth.

He pulls back sharply when he hears Jon’s heart rate monitor spike.

Jon’s lips are red and slick, parted in an incredulous breath. His hand stays tangled in Roman’s hair, blunt nails digging into his scalp. He rolls his head back against the pillow, revealing the long column of his neck, and Roman’s teeth ache. 

He leans down, presses a kiss to the ring of bruises circling Jon’s neck. Jon shivers, groans, and pulls on Roman’s hair. The harsh tug sends a spark of pain down Roman’s spine, and he lets himself be pulled away.

“If you continue, this is gonna get real awkward for the nurses.” Jon pants, voice wrecked in the best way. It’s higher than usual, airier, and it cracks twice in the short sentence. Roman grins and presses his forehead against Jon’s collarbone. Sami grumbles something like, “ _ it’s gunna get real awkward for me if y’all keep goin’.” _

“I can help with the food and the bills.” He mumbles, pressing the words into Jon’s skin. His hand has migrated to Jon’s hip, and he strokes his thumb across the harsh jut of bone.

Mox opens his mouth to argue, but Roman cuts him off with a chaste kiss. 

He pulls away and straightens, keeps his grip on Jon’s hand. “I know you don’t want to be a charity case. This isn’t pity or me doing it because I feel like I have to. I wanna help you guys. It’s not like I’m hurting for money, and y’all could use it.” He murmurs, voice low in the quiet room.

Sami left as soon as the kissing had stopped, so it’s just Jon and Roman, sitting in the harsh fluorescent lights. Jon looks up at him through messy hair, and Roman once again is struck by how  _ young _ he looks. He looks like a kid, like a teenager, with his long strawberry blonde curls plastered to his forehead and his dimples and round chipmunk cheeks and crystal eyes looking at Roman through mile-long lashes.

“How old are you?” Roman asks, voice quiet in the room. Jon looks at him with wide, confused eyes.

“I’m 27.” Jon answers, voice nothing more than a huffed out laugh. “You?” He asks, and eyebrow raised.

“32.”

Jon laughs. “I’d call you a cougar, but what does that make me? I started all this.” He chuckles and rolls his head back again. “I really don’t want the help. Still, there’s no way Sami and I can make it a few weeks without the money that comes from fights. Just...give us the bare minimum, okay? I don’t want any extra cash.” He mumbles to the ceiling.

Roman nods and smooths Jon’s hair out of his eyes. Jon leans into the touch, eyes fluttering shut. The stitches are back at his hairline, likely from getting busted open again. Roman sees scrapes and bruises along Mox’s pale knuckles, sees a stitched cut along his palm. He itches to kiss it, but refrains. 

“Once you get outta here, we can work out a plan for money. I’ll make sure you get enough to get by.” Roman presses a kiss to Mox’s uninjured palm, scraping his teeth across the callus just below Mox’s fingers. Mox hums low in his throat, eyes lidded as he looks at Roman.

Roman stays until the nurses kick him out.   
++   
Over the next few months, they set up a routine. 

Roman gives Jon the money he needs for bills, plus a few hundred extra for food and emergencies. In the first three months, Jon gains 30 pounds and starts to fill out a little, building muscle and a little layer of fat across his body. He’s at a healthy weight, and he doesn’t look so skeletal anymore. It makes Roman happy.

Jon also lets Roman take him out a few times.

They go to hole-in-the-wall shops, small diners no one really seems to know about, walks through the wetland parks, visits to dog parks that leave Mox grinning and rambling about it for days. Mox spends the night at Roman’s condo, makes himself at home as he empties Roman’s fridge and curls around Roman at night. Their kisses are frequent, and, if Roman can help it, chaste. More often than not, though, he can’t, and it ends with Mox pinning him to the couch and kissing him until he can’t breathe and he’s tasted every crevice of Roman’s mouth. 

Roman doesn’t mind.

It’s one such occasion when Roman learns. They’d gone out to dinner earlier, and Jon seems dead set on licking the remnants of the slice of pie they shared for dessert from between Roman’s teeth. He has Roman pressed into the corner of the couch, weight settled across his lap and his fingers tangled in Roman’s hair.

Roman’s pliant under him, letting Jon take control. Jon seems happy, making quiet noises against Roman’s mouth. His hips are rolling gently, little insistent movements against his stomach. Roman’s fingernails are digging into Jon’s hips, and whenever his fingers flex, Jon makes a pleased little hum. Roman’s painfully hard, his cock pressed against his zipper and the curve of Mox’s ass.

Roman rolls his hips, pressing his cock even harder against Jon. His breath hitches, and Roman manages to detach his mouth. He leans forward, and Jon fixes his lips to Roman’s pulse point. Roman takes Jon’s earlobe between his teeth and whispers, “You should let me fuck you.”

Jon moans, a punched out sound that comes from deep in his sternum. His head falls to rest on Roman’s collarbone, and Roman feels the younger man’s hips twitch. Roman grins, feral, as he slides a hand to cup Jon’s ass. He squeezes him through his jeans, and Jon lets out a shuddering breath.

“C’mon, baby. I bet you feel so good, fuck.” Roman breathes, running his fingertips just within Jon’s waistband. “Tight and hot…” He licks up the line of Jon’s bent neck. “I’d make you come so good.” He pants against the shell of Jon’s ear.

Jon squeezes his eyes tight, breath coming in short, harsh gasps. His eyes are squeezed shut, brows furrowed, mouth open and wet. Roman tips his head up with his free hand and kisses his open mouth. Jon pants against him, mouth pliant as he lets himself be kissed. “If you keep talkin’ like that, I’m gonna come in my pants like a fuckin’ teenager.” He breathes with a dry chuckle.

“Good.” Roman breathes, and he stands. Jon’s legs wrap around his waist and his hands fall to Roman’s shoulders. He lets out a startled yelp, but Roman’s hands on his ass hold up his weight. Roman laughs a little as he walks, feeling Jon cling to him. He hooks his arms under the bends of Jon’s knees and presses him against the wall. Jon keens in the back of his throat.

“God, your ass is outta this world. Maybe I’d eat you out first, get you all nice and wet for me, stick in a few fingers to loosen you up. You’d still be tight, so fucking tight, like a vice grip on my dick. I can’t wait to get inside you.” Roman growls against Jon’s jaw, teeth scraping his skin.

“Roman, I’m a virgin.” 

The words tumble from Jon’s lips quickly, like he’s worried he’s gonna stop himself. His cheeks are flushed red, and he isn’t meeting Roman’s eyes. His fingers are fidgeting from their place in Roman’s hair, twisting around strands nervously.

Roman sets Jon down, and the younger man still refuses to look at him. Roman leans in carefully, cupping Jon’s chin to raise his eyes. He kisses Jon slowly, tenderly, doesn’t even think about licking into his mouth. He pulls away after a short kiss and asks, “How far have you gone?”

Jon shudders when Roman thumbs across his lower lip. “I’ve never been fucked, or fucked anyone. I’ve given my fair share of blowjobs though.” He says, shivering under Roman’s roaming hands. His hands slide under Jon’s t-shirt, skimming across the planes of Jon’s ribs, fingers rolling Jon’s nipples. Jon moans and thumps his head against Roman’s shoulder.

“We don’t have to do this right now. I’m sure you’re a pretty sight on your knees.” Roman says, pressing a gentle kiss to the side of Jon’s neck. 

Jon scoffs and shoves Roman back. “Don’t hafta do this my ass. You better finish what you started, sunshine.” He growls, backing Roman against the coffee table. He stumbles and falls, his weight falling on the table. Jon sets his knees on either side of Roman’s hips and settles his weight across Roman’s thighs.

He grinds back against Roman, breath hitching as he digs his nails into Roman’s shoulders. “I want you to show me how good a dick in my ass could feel.” He presses himself to Roman’s front and leans to press his lips against the older man’s ear. “I want you to fuck me.” He whispers, voice airy and light. His voice cracks when Roman traces the curve of his ass with reverent fingers.

“Bedroom. Now.” Roman growls, eyes dark with lust. His fingernails dig into Jon’s ass, tight little pinpricks of  _ pleasurepaineverythinginbetween. _ Jon nods so quickly he’s almost worried he’s gonna get whiplash. He trips getting off Roman’s lap and almost faceplants into the couch.

Roman comes into the bedroom a second later and grabs Jon by the front of his shirt. He tugs it up, and Jon’s arms raise to help him. His jeans are sitting low on his hips, and Roman kneels to press a hard bite to the skin just above his waistline.

Jon moans and digs his nails into Roman’s scalp. “Fuck, Ro, I didn’t ask for head. I asked for you to fuck me and I’m gonna need you to hurry the fuck up.” He grits out, breath sticking as Roman’s teeth dig into his skin.

Roman huffs out a laugh and sits on his haunches. He smooths his hair out of his face and starts working on his zipper. “Alright then, baby. Get on the bed for me and open up those pretty legs.” Roman says as he pulls his cock out. 

Jon looks at him for a long moment with lidded eyes and an open mouth. He scrambles to undo his belt, fingers scratching against the metal of his belt buckle. He finally gets it open after a moment and he rips his jeans open, the zipper creaking angrily. He tugs them down his thighs and almost trips trying to rip his feet out of them. He tosses himself onto the bed as he yanks his tank top over his head, tossing it into the corner of the room.

Roman stands, carefully working himself out of his pants. Jon is laying on his back in the center of the bed, legs spread lewdly. His cock is hard and red and he’s running his hand along his shaft, rolling his thumb along the head. There’s a steel ring sitting through his head, entering his slit and exiting the top ridge of his head. There’s precum glistening at his tip, and Roman’s mouth feels heavy.

Jon gives a lewd grin and presses his knees into the bed, spreading his legs further. He opens his mouth to say something dirty but Roman silences him by pinning his weight down. One of Roman’s hands grabs Jon’s wrists and pins them both down as the other one traces across Jon’s chest, his nipples, his side.

“Stay.” Roman growls, letting go of Jon’s wrists. He listens, though he wriggles a little impatiently. Roman gets off the bed, takes his shirt off in one smooth motion. He walks over to his nightstand and opens the top drawer, grabs a bottle of lube and a condom. Jon makes an indignant noise and Roman looks at him with a quirked eyebrow.

“Wanna…” Jon’s voice dies in his throat and he moans, hips arching off the bed. His cock twitches against his stomach, and he moves his fingers to tighten around the base. “Fuck, Ro, wanna feel you come in me. Don’t…” He breathes out a harsh breath and drops his hand to the side, uncovering himself. “Fuck the condom, please, don’t wear one, let me feel you, fuck, I can’t take this.” He  _ whimpers _ , a low sound that feels like it’s ripped out of his stomach.

Roman groans low in his throat and grips his dick tight as a bead of precum oozes from the tip. “Fuck. You clean?” He asks, voice breathy and low with arousal. Jon rolls his eyes and nods, hair flying into his eyes, and he tips his head back to reveal the column of his throat as he keens and moans.

“On your stomach.” Roman  _ orders _ , and Jon whines. He rolls over, his breath huffing out as he ruts against the mattress. The motion pushes his ass out a little, cheeks flexing as he rubs his dick against Roman’s silk sheets. Roman settles behind him and grabs his cheeks, fingers digging into the pliant flesh.

Jon groans loudly and buries his face in his folded arms. 

Roman spreads him, thumbs digging into the give of his cheeks as Roman reveals his hole. He watches as Jon clenches, his hole winking as he does so. Jon’s hips rise a little off the bed, pushing further into Roman’s hands, spreading himself open even more.

Roman leans down, licks along the curve of Jon’s left asscheek. Jon jolts, cries out, breath coming in hard pants. Every noise he makes is muffled by his arms, and Roman briefly reaches up to yank Jon’s head back by a fistful of hair. Jon gets the idea and raises his head, letting Roman hear every delicious noise he’s making.

He brings his hand down, using his left one to spread Jon. With his right, he grabs the lube and flicks it open. The sound of the cap popping open causes Jon to jump. His thighs are shaking, and Roman’s barely touched him.

It’s such a fucking turn on.

He carefully lets a trickle of lube drip down Jon’s crack. He groans, a sound like it’s been yanked out of his chest. It’s a gorgeous sound, and Roman wants more. 

Roman drops the lube onto the mattress and uses the hand not holding Jon open to smear the lube across Jon’s hole. He moans shakily and his hips twitch. His breathing is heavy and erratic, the way it gets after a fight.

“Hold yourself open for me, baby.” Roman pants, rasping his beard against Jon’s asscheek. Jon nods harriedly and reaches back, his nails digging into his ass as he spreads his cheeks. His cheek rests against the sheets, and his eyes seem glossy. He pushes his ass back and breathes out a desperate, “Please,” that almost gets lost in the huffs of his breath.

Roman growls and presses closer. He licks gently across Jon’s core, tongue pressed flat. Jon shakes as Roman does it again, pressing against Jon’s hole. He repeats that motion a few times, just the wide of his tongue licking steady stripes from his perineum to the top of his crack. Jon’s moaning like a whore, fast little pants that are airy and light.

Roman spears his tongue and licks around Jon’s rim. He traces the furled muscle, lazy circles that have both of them moaning. 

“Fuck, you taste good.” Roman groans before diving back in, tracing shapes and letters against Jon’s ass. Jon whines as Roman traces his name, and Roman does it again. His beard is rasping against Jon’s tender skin and it’s gotta hurt but Jon doesn’t seem to mind.

Roman slowly slips his tongue inside, rolling motions that push past the ring of muscle. The rolling pushes him in further and further each time until he’s pressed in as far as he can go. Jon is so fucking tight around him, his muscles occasionally clenching around him.

Roman reaches a finger up and lightly trails across the outside of Jon’s entrance. Jon moans, loud and unabashed, and filth pours from his tongue. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, Roman. Please, finger-fuck me, tongue fuck me, something, oh my fucking god.” He sounds close to tears and Roman growls possessively.

He slips his tongue out and listens to Jon whine. 

He grabs the lube and slicks three fingers as he sits up. He traces them across Jon’s hole and digs the nails of his free hand into Jon’s hip. He gently probes with his index finger, testing the muscle.

“You ever touch yourself down here? Finger yourself while you jerk off, rub your fingers against your taint. That’s a pretty fuckin’ picture.” Roman growls as he teases with his finger. Jon moans, loud, and nods roughly. 

His fingertip pushes in, and he sinks down to the first knuckle. Jon gasps, babbling absolute filth, things that don’t fully make sense except to him and his pleasure riddled brain. He slowly fucks his finger in, sinking a little deeper each time.

He lets Jon get used to the feeling, to the intrusion, buried to the knuckle in Jon’s ass. Eventually, after a little bit of prodding, Jon asks for another finger. He carefully slips another in, lube-slicked fingers scissoring the muscle. He crooks his fingers, and Jon moans and twitches.

Another finger gets added, stacked and thick and long and pressed against Jon’s prostate. The younger man is groaning and moaning and begging and writhing like a fucking whore, hips fucking down against the bed. His arms and thighs are shaking, and Roman hasn’t even fucked him yet. He grins.

“On your back, pretty boy.” Roman breathes, lightly slapping Jon’s ass cheek. Jon makes a sound in the back of his throat and rolls, legs falling open lewdly. Roman fits himself between Jon’s thighs and drags a finger down the line of Jon’s cock.

He grabs one of Jon’s legs and slings it over his shoulder. The position raises Jon’s ass up slightly, and repeating it with the other leg only accentuates it. Roman carefully slicks his cock and presses his head against Jon’s hole.

“You sure you’re okay with this?” Jon nods, eyes clenched shut. “Tell me if you need me to stop.” Roman mumbles, pressing a kiss to the inside of Jon’s thigh. Jon groans and writhes, fucking his hips down enough to press Roman in just barely.

“C’ mon, fuck me. I’m not made-a glass. C’mon.” Jon urges, slipping one leg down to wrap around Roman’s waist. He digs his heel into Roman’s asscheek and tries to pull him closer, tries to spear himself on Roman’s cock.

Roman growls and rakes his nails down Jon’s sides almost hard enough to split skin. Jon arches into it, mouth falling open in silent moans. Roman pushes in slowly, steadily, one smooth motion. He can feel Jon’s hole dragging on his dick as he simultaneously tries to pull him deeper and push him out.

He takes it slow, little pulses of his hips as he sits buried as far as he can get. Jon's eyes are clenched shut, and his nails are digging into his own scalp. He's panting roughly, like he can't get enough air, and he's making small noises in the back of his throat.

“You good, baby?” Roman asks, running his fingertips along the inside of Jon's thigh. Jon huffs out a laugh and experimentally rolls his hips. He moans, a long sound that continues even after the air leaves his lungs. He gasps and nods.

“I’d be even fuckin’ better if you'd move.” He chuckles breathlessly and rolls his hips again. Roman's grip on his hip tightens and his fingernails threaten to split skin. “C’mon, doll, fuck me like you mean it.” He groans, tilting his head back. He moves his hips, pushing himself down on Roman’s cock.

Roman growls and bends, pushing the tops of Jon’s thighs to his chest. Jon groans as the motion pushes his hips higher. Roman fucks his hips in once, a hard push that moves Jon up the bed a few centimeters. “Sure you know what you’re asking for, baby?” Roman murmurs, breath hot against Jon’s neck.

“If you don’t fucking do that again immediately, I’m gonna kick you in the head.” Jon gasps, clenching tight around Roman. His fingers scramble for purchase, eventually coming to sink into Roman’s ass.

Roman pistons his hips again, listening to the sharp gasp that pulls from Jon’s lungs. “You sure ‘bout this, baby?” He breathes, digging his teeth into the meat of Jon’s shoulder. He rolls his hips a few times, a slow, almost shallow pace.

“Please, please. Please, doll, fuck me. I need this, I need you, please.” Jon begs, burying his face in Roman’s neck. His hips move insistently, pushing back against Roman to try and coax him to move.

“Tell me if you want me to stop.” Roman mumbles, and then he pulls to his full height while staying on his knees. He drives in hard, and Jon moans so fucking loudly Roman feels it in his chest.

Roman sets a hard pace, hands settled across Jon’s waist. He’s so fucking  _ small _ there, ribs poking against Roman’s hands. Jon’s arms are wrapped around Roman’s neck, fingers digging into Roman’s shoulders. He’s trying to kiss Roman, but all he can manage is rough panting against the older man’s mouth.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck. You feel so fucking good.” Jon moans, digging his teeth into Roman’s lip. The sharp pinpricks of pain draw a moan from Roman’s lips, cause his hips to jerk forward harder than intended.

“Oh fuck me.” Jon pants, dropping his limbs to the bed. He’s limp, like he isn’t in his own body. He’s nothing more than a toy, barely responding beyond broken moans as Roman tugs him back onto his cock. Jon’s cock is drooling onto his stomach, his piercing slick with precome.

Jon pulls a hand away from Roman and grabs his cock. Roman has half a mind to swat his hand away, tell Jon he can’t touch himself, but the way Jon tightens around him and the rough  _ whines _ coming from the younger man chase the thoughts away. 

Roman drives his hips forwards as hard as he can, one hand leaving Jon’s waist to brace against the mattress by Jon’s head. Jon turns his head and latches onto Roman’s forearm, teeth digging into the flesh. It’s a little weird, but it feels pretty good, and the sharp digs of pain curl low in his stomach. He rests his forehead against Jon’s temple, panting into his ear. 

The bed is creaking with the force of his thrusts, an angry sound that sometimes covers the breathy noises Jon lets out. And that’s a damn shame because the noises he makes are fucking  _ pretty _ , rough, bitten off sounds that build in the back of his throat and bubble out of his mouth.

Jon comes suddenly, paints his stomach and his hand. He tightens almost  _ painfully _ around Roman’s cock, almost to the point where Roman can’t move. It only takes Roman two or three thrusts to follow, almost collapsing over Jon with the force of his orgasm.

Jon whines, high in his throat, as Roman pulls out. They lay there for a second, boneless, before Roman rolls to his feet. He grabs a washcloth from the bathroom and a water bottle from the kitchen before returning. 

Jon’s still spread-eagle on the bed, limbs loose and slack. There’s come drying on his stomach and leaking out of him, which send a bolt of heat to Roman’s spent cock. He smiles at Roman, blinding and mischevious, as he raises his hand to his mouth. He licks the cum away, letting out a theatrical moan as he does so.

“That’s mean, baby.” Roman laughs, climbing onto the bed. He hands Jon the water bottle and sets about cleaning away the cum. They’ll definitely have to shower later, but he deems it enough to just rub Jon down with the washcloth.

He lays next to Jon, who snuggles into Roman’s side. “That was nice.” Jon mumbles, the words muffled against Roman’s pec. Roman smiles into Jon’s hair and curls an arm around the younger man’s waist. The size there is still baffling, and Roman can’t help but grope at the sharp slope of Jon’s side.

“Just  _ nice _ , huh?” He asks, pressing a kiss to Jon’s forehead. He can feel Jon starting to relax further, if that’s even possible, practically melting into Roman. One of Jon’s legs is hitched up, tangled between Roman’s, and his hand is tracing lazy shapes on Roman’s stomach.

“Don’t wanna feed your ego.” Jon mumbles sleepily. Roman can feel his grin more than he can see it. He  _ definitely _ feels the playful bite Jon sinks into the meat of his pec.

“Stop chewing on me like a mutt and get some sleep.” Roman says, tightening the slight grip he has on Jon. The younger man shivers and snuggles even further against Roman. His hair is tickling Roman’s nose, but he can’t be bothered to care as Mox starts snoring softly.

He could get used to this.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm jonsmoxley on Tumblr! Come bug me!


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